The Silver Linings Playbook Chapter 26

Weathering the Relative Squalor When I ask to see Jake's wedding pictures, my mother plays dumb. â€Å"What wedding pictures?† she asks. But when I tell her I have met Caitlin – that we had lunch together and I have already accepted my sister-in-law's existence as fact – my mother looks relieved and says, â€Å"Well then, I guess I can hang up the wedding photos again.† She leaves me sitting in the living room by the fireplace. When she returns, she hands me a heavy photo album bound in white leather and begins to stand large frames up on the mantel – pictures of Jake and Caitlin previously hidden for my benefit. As I flip through the pages of my brother's wedding album, Mom also hangs up a few portraits of Jake and Caitlin on the walls. â€Å"It was a beautiful day, Pat. We all wished you were there.† The massive cathedral and the plush reception hall suggest that Caitlin's family must have what Danny calls â€Å"mad cheddar,† so I ask what Caitlin's father does for a living. â€Å"For years he was a violinist for the New York Philharmonic, but now he teaches at Juilliard. Music theory. Whatever that means.† Mom has finished hanging the framed pictures, and she sits next to me on the couch. â€Å"Caitlin's parents are nice people, but they're not really our kind of people, which became painfully obvious during the reception. How do I look in the pictures?† In the photos, my mother wears a chocolate brown dress and a bloodred sash over naked shoulders. Her lipstick matches the sash perfectly, but it looks as if she has on too much eye makeup, making her look sort of like a raccoon. On the plus side, her hair is in what Nikki used to call â€Å"a classic updo† and looks pretty good, so I tell Mom she photographs well, which makes her smile. Tension occupies my father's face; he does not look comfortable in any of the pictures, so I ask if he approves of Caitlin. â€Å"She's from a different world as far as your father's concerned, and he did not enjoy interacting with her parents – at all – but he's happy for Jake, in his own non-expressive way,† Mom says. â€Å"He understands that Caitlin makes your brother happy.† This gets me thinking about how strange my father was at my own wedding, refusing to speak to anyone unless he was spoken to first and then answering everyone with monosyllabic responses. I remember being mad at my father during the rehearsal dinner because he would not even look at Nikki, let alone interact with her family. I remember my mother and brother telling me that Dad did not deal well with change, but their explanation meant nothing to me until the next day. Halfway through the Mass, the priest asked the congregation if they would hold Nikki and me up in their prayers, and as instructed, we turned to face the response. I instinctively looked toward my parents, curious to see if my father would say the words â€Å"we will† like he was supposed to, chanting along with everyone else, and this is when I saw him wiping his eyes with a tissue and biting down on his lower lip. His whole body was trembling slightly, as if he were an old man. It was the strangest sight, my father crying during a wedding that had seemed to make him so annoyed. The very man who never showed any emotions other than anger was crying. I kept staring at my father, and when it became obvious that I was not going to turn back toward the priest, Jake – who was my best man – had to give me a little nudge to break the spell. Sitting on the couch with my mother, I ask her, â€Å"When were Caitlin and Jake married?† My mother looks at me strangely. She doesn't want to mention the date. â€Å"I know it happened when I was in the bad place, and I also know that I was in the bad place for years. I've accepted that much.† â€Å"Are you sure you really want to know the date?† â€Å"I can handle it, Mom.† She looks at me for a second, trying to decide what to do, and then says, â€Å"The summer of 2004. August seventh. They've been married for just over two years now.† â€Å"Who paid for the wedding photos?† My mother laughs. â€Å"Are you kidding me? Your father and I never could have afforded that fancy sort of wedding album. Caitlin's parents were very generous, putting together the album for us and allowing us to blow up whatever photos we wanted and – â€Å" â€Å"Did they give you the negatives?† â€Å"Why would they give us – â€Å" She must see the look on my face, because Mom stops speaking immediately. â€Å"Then how did you replace the photos after that burglar came and stole all the framed photos in the house?† Mother is thinking how best to answer as I wait for her response; she begins chewing on the inside of her cheek the way she sometimes does when she is anxious. After a second, she calmly says, â€Å"I called up Caitlin's mother, told her about the burglary, and she had copies made that very week.† â€Å"Then how do you explain these?† I say just before pulling framed wedding pictures of Nikki and me out from behind the pillow at the far end of the love seat. When my mother says nothing, I stand and return my wedding picture to its rightful place on the mantel. Then on the wall by the front window I rehang the picture of my immediate family gathered around Nikki in her wedding dress – her white train spilling out across the grass toward the camera. â€Å"I found the ‘Pat' box, Mom. If you really hate Nikki so much, just tell me, and I'll hang the pictures up in the attic, where I sleep.† Mom doesn't say anything. â€Å"Do you hate Nikki? And if so, why?† My mother will not look at me. She's running her hands through her hair. â€Å"Why did you lie to me? What else have you lied about?† â€Å"I'm sorry, Pat. But I lied to †¦Ã¢â‚¬  Mom does not tell me why she lied; instead she starts to cry again. For a very long time, I look out the window and stare at the neighbors' house across the street. Part of me wants to comfort my mother – to sit down next to her and throw an arm over her shoulders, especially since I know my father has not talked to her in more than a week and is happily eating takeout three times a day, doing his own laundry, and weathering the relative squalor. I have caught Mom cleaning here and there, and I know she is a little upset about her plan not working out like she hoped it would. But I am also mad at my mother for lying to me, and even though I am practicing being kind rather than right, I can't find it in me to comfort her right now. Finally I leave Mom crying on the couch. I change, and when I go outside for a run, Tiffany is waiting.

Digital Fortress Chapter 45

David Becker wandered aimlessly down Avenida del Cid and tried to collect his thoughts. Muted shadows played on the cobblestones beneath his feet. The vodka was still with him. Nothing about his life seemed in focus at the moment. His mind drifted back to Susan, wondering if she'd gotten his phone message yet. Up ahead, a Seville Transit Bus screeched to a halt in front of a bus stop. Becker looked up. The bus's doors cranked open, but no one disembarked. The diesel engine roared back to life, but just as the bus was pulling out, three teenagers appeared out of a bar up the street and ran after it, yelling and waving. The engines wound down again, and the kids hurried to catch up. Thirty yards behind them, Becker stared in utter incredulity. His vision was suddenly focused, but he knew what he was seeing was impossible. It was a one-in-a-million chance. I'm hallucinating. But as the bus doors opened, the kids crowded around to board. Becker saw it again. This time he was certain. Clearly illuminated in the haze of the corner streetlight, he'd seen her. The passengers climbed on, and the bus's engines revved up again. Becker suddenly found himself at a full sprint, the bizarre image fixed in his mind-black lipstick, wild eye shadow, and that hair†¦ spiked straight up in three distinctive spires. Red, white, and blue. As the bus started to move, Becker dashed up the street into awake of carbon monoxide. â€Å"Espera!† he called, running behind the bus. Becker's cordovan loafers skimmed the pavement. His usual squash agility was not with him, though; he felt off balance. His brain was having trouble keeping track of his feet. He cursed the bartender and his jet lag. The bus was one of Seville's older diesels, and fortunately for Becker, first gear was a long, arduous climb. Becker felt the gap closing. He knew he had to reach the bus before it downshifted. The twin tailpipes choked out a cloud of thick smoke as the driver prepared to drop the bus into second gear. Becker strained for more speed. As he surged even with the rear bumper, Becker moved right, racing up beside the bus. He could see the rear doors-and as on all Seville buses, it was propped wide open: cheap air-conditioning. Becker fixed his sights on the opening and ignored the burning sensation in his legs. The tires were beside him, shoulder high, humming at a higher and higher pitch every second. He surged toward the door, missing the handle and almost losing his balance. He pushed harder. Underneath the bus, the clutch clicked as the driver prepared to change gears. He's shifting! I won't make it! But as the engine cogs disengaged to align the larger gears, the bus let up ever so slightly. Becker lunged. The engine reengaged just as his fingertips curled around the door handle. Becker's shoulder almost ripped from its socket as the engine dug in, catapulting him up onto the landing. David Becker lay collapsed just inside the vehicle's doorway. The pavement raced by only inches away. He was now sober. His legs and shoulder ached. Wavering, he stood, steadied himself, and climbed into the darkened bus. In the crowd of silhouettes, only a few seats away, were the three distinctive spikes of hair. Red, white, and blue! I made it! Becker's mind filled with images of the ring, the waiting Learjet 60, and at the end of it all, Susan. As Becker came even with the girl's seat wondering what to say to her, the bus passed beneath a streetlight. The punk's face was momentarily illuminated. Becker stared in horror. The makeup on her face was smeared across a thick stubble. She was not a girl at all, but a young man. He wore a silver stud in his upper lip, a black leather jacket, and no shirt. â€Å"What the fuck do you want?† the hoarse voice asked. His accent was New York. With the disorientated nausea of a slow-motion free fall, Becker gazed at the busload of passengers staring back at him. They were all punks. At least half of them had red, white, and blue hair. â€Å"Sientate!† the driver yelled. Becker was too dazed to hear. â€Å"Sientate!† The driver screamed. â€Å"Sit down!† Becker turned vaguely to the angry face in the rearview mirror. But he had waited too long. Annoyed, the driver slammed down hard on the brakes. Becker felt his weight shift. He reached for a seat back but missed. For an instant, David Becker was airborne. Then he landed hard on the gritty floor. On Avenida del Cid, a figure stepped from the shadows. He adjusted his wire-rim glasses and peered after the departing bus. David Becker had escaped, but it would not be for long. Of all the buses in Seville, Mr. Becker had just boarded the infamous number 27. Bus 27 had only one destination.

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